No Other Terms (Unconditional and Immediate Surrender)
by Carlier36
Summary: Miles comes to Rachel's room one freezing cold night, trying to find clarity as he struggles with the knowledge that his best friend is out of control. I Set after the flashbacks from 1.20


Disclaimer: I do not own Revolution nor am I associated with any of its cast or crew.

A/N: This is based on my (probably totally unrealistic) head canon that before Miles left, Rachel was kept in the clock tower of Independence Hall. Currently, we don't know where she actually stayed during that time, as based on the Enemies of the State webisodes, it would seem knowledge of her residence in Philadelphia was not widespread until after Miles left.

Images of what this room and the other rooms in the clock tower look like: photos/visitphilly/sets/72157624493840198/

Also, the museum mentioned is the Philadelphia Museum of Art which includes numerous folding screens and tapestries in its collection, the same kinds of items we see in season 1 in Independence Hall and in Bass' campaign tents.

Title taken from: "No other terms than unconditional and immediate surrender. I propose to move immediately upon your works." – Ulysses S. Grant

Prompt: Surrender

**No Other Terms (Unconditional and Immediate Surrender)**

Access to the iconic Independence Hall clock tower had long been blocked by a rough-hewn door that was the subject of much debate and gossip among the officers of the Monroe Militia. The heavy chain on the door did little to discourage the rumors but it did succeed in keeping out everyone but General Matheson, General Monroe and a conveniently deaf maid.

The bitter cold of a mid-January snowstorm surged through the open door as Miles lifted the chain off and stepped inside, a bundle of thin rope clutched in one hand. He let the door slam shut behind him, pausing just long enough to chain it from the inside before marching up the stairs, antique floorboards creaking in complaint.

It was really no wonder half his men (and half of Philadelphia) thought the clock tower was haunted.

Moonlight filtered through the heavily curtained round window as he reached the third floor, a cramped, drafty room that was a bitch in both summer and winter, though the chill that settled over the room seemed infinitely worse than the blazing heat of July. The far corner served as a primitive washroom, sectioned off by one of several folding screens raided from a former Philadelphia museum, along with the tapestries on the walls to keep what little warmth existed inside.

The remaining available surfaces were lined with stacks of books he had likely never heard of and unlit candles, dried wax dripping down their sides. Standing there on the top step, though, he found his eyes glued only to the narrow bed jutting out from the wall and the soft figure asleep on it, his post-apocalyptic Rapunzel in a tower.

He couldn't say Rachel looked peaceful but, then, he had never known much about peace. Even what little serenity the Republic had enjoyed for a time seemed to have recently slipped through their fingers, with the rebel bombing right there in Philadelphia a week earlier and what Bass had done- after. The rope burned his palm as he clenched his hand into a fist, and he shrugged the thought of little coffins away, bones still aching from the blast.

His tongue darted out between his lips and Miles moved across the room with a silent purpose. Nudging aside the heated bricks at the end of the bed, he sank down onto the mattress, its springs protesting and squeaking under his added weight. Rachel shifted in her sleep, mumbling or moaning something against the pillow as he gingerly lifted her slender wrist. Holding it against a plain wooden slat on the headboard, he bound her tightly with a length of rope. She seemed mostly unaware of him leaning over her but as his fingers closed around her other wrist, her eyes snapped open and she bolted up, tugging on her bound arm.

"Miles? Miles, _what-_" Groggy panic seeped into her voice, breath visible in the shafts of moonlight, even as he pressed her back into the mattress, wrestling her free arm up against the headboard. Gritting his teeth, he lashed her wrist to the wood, fending off a poorly aimed knee in the process.

With Rachel securely immobilized, he pinned her hips to the bed, hands decorating her with black and purple bruises. "_Rachel_." She kicked at him again, jerking her wrists and pushing herself up to tug uselessly at the ends of the rope with her teeth.

"You son of a _bitch_. What, are you sick of paying for the privilege down the street, now you want it free?"

"Calm down," he muttered, secure in the knowledge she couldn't escape as he stood, pushing the curtains open like they almost never were in daylight: always too much concern that someone in the street below might see her and realize the rumored Ghost of Independence Hall was a living, captive woman. The window panes were lined with ice crystals, obscuring his view of the city, but he stared out for a long minute, contemplating his reflection instead.

Rachel grunted, still yanking on the ropes as he sat back on the edge of the bed to unlace his boots. Each was placed neatly side by side on the floor and, shedding his warm, green jacket, he hung that from the bed post beside her head. By the time he'd unbuttoned his shirt, cold air stinging his chest, she lay still and silent on the bed, moonlight draining her face of color. "Don't do this, Miles. I'd never forgive you."

Drawing the piled blankets back so she shivered in her old fleece pajamas, Miles cupped her cheek in his hand. "I don't want to hurt you, Rachel." He winced, the words too similar to those he always used before exacting a particularly cruel torture. "I'm done trying to break you."

He leaned in, broad form dwarfing her, and pressed soft, dry lips to hers. She didn't return the kiss, only tugged on her bonds and lay impassively beneath him. It wasn't as if they'd been entirely chaste the almost four years she'd spent in this miserable tower but on the rare occasion he came to her bed, it was always rough and violent and ended with raw stripes in his back and bruises on her too-thin body. Like a blood-soaked vision quest to realign his world view when he got off kilter, without any painful attempts at romance. It hadn't always been that way. Their affair had been destructive but the passion between them always contained genuine affection: only in Philadelphia had it been twisted and mangled into something he no longer recognized.

Miles rested his forehead against hers, rough fingertips grazing her jaw. "Remember when we couldn't get enough of each other?" he asked, voice like flint on steel, all natural coarseness and splintered sparks.

"I remember chasing after a man too stunted to admit he could love. It was kind of a low point for me."

A hot, harsh breath escaped against her cheek before he could rein himself in, his composure already wavering, already losing his grip on the conscious decision to be _kind _to her. The irony that he had to physically restrain her to keep himself in line didn't escape him, though he chose to ignore it. Pushing up onto his knees, Miles turned his single-minded focus to her top, threading the buttons open one by one.

"Jesus Christ, Miles, it's freezing in here," she snapped as he let the fabric fall to her sides, exposing soft, firm breasts and the curve of her ribs. Goosebumps rose on her flesh, nipples hardening to peaks he couldn't resist.

He ducked his head to suck one into the heat of his mouth, his hands clenched in the thin sheet so her other breast was left achingly unattended. Rachel fidgeted beneath him, unable to control the arch of her body that he knew so well.

"What do you want?" The words dropped off, surrender in the tilt of her jaw and the exposed line of her throat.

"There's nothing to forgive, if you want it too." It wasn't quite a non-sequitur, just the delayed answer to her earlier attempt at guilt.

Her teeth chattered and he swiped his tongue over soft, nearly blue skin, felt her legs stretch and press between his. Miles grunted into her breast, holding back the usual urge to be rough and demanding.

Even with his head buried in her chest, he could imagine her lip caught between her teeth, eyes cracked half-open. "Come on, what's this really about? Don't you have a girlfriend for this kind of," she needled, nearly breathless as she tugged on her ropes for emphasis, "shit?"

He took his time coloring her breast red, marks that would bruise and darken by morning, before lifting his head to look at her. Her hair was spread on the pillow in a tangled, unkempt mess and with those blue eyes slanted open at him, arms stretched above her head, she looked like every fantasy and nightmare he'd had for going on twenty years. "Her name's Nora. She's the real thing."

"As opposed to the woman you keep in the attic for sexual favors?"

"That's not what this is," he mumbled, eyes darting away to the table strewn with candles, even though he knew that's what it looked like and felt like.

"So enlighten me, Miles." He would never understand how she could sound so condescending, half-naked and under his thumb for four years.

Miles slid a hand up over her shoulder, pushing the hair out of her face. He lingered there, forehead furrowed in thought and the foreign attempt to put emotions to words. His large hand dropped down of its own accord, fingers circling her throat and squeezing just tight enough to be uncomfortable, if familiar. He felt his lip curl slightly, muscle-memory betraying his best efforts at _gentle _or _tender._

"I- You're-" Closing his eyes, he pushed away the General Matheson ferocity he'd so carefully cultivated, grip loosening a fraction. "You're my constant. I come here, like this, when I need to clear my head."

When he opened his eyes again, she was watching him with bold curiosity, head tilted. "This is different, though. What's the point of these?" She nodded to her tied wrists without looking away, her voice softer than usual, as though they were really talking rather than exchanging the predetermined banter.

Miles lifted his stare to the headboard, his knots tight and precise. "Can't hide forever."

She squinted at him but didn't question it, just wriggled into him, suppressing a shiver of cold, if not quite arousal. "Well get on with it then before I freeze to death."

Splaying his fingers over her ribs, cold shuddering through them both, he nodded slowly. "Yeah. Right." She'd been on his mind constantly since Bass had those rebel kids killed, even when he was wrapped in Nora's arms with a fire flickering in the fireplace and a powdery blanket of snow outside, a goddamn Colonial postcard.

Miles watched as his hand moved down across her hip, untying the fabric at her waist and dragging pajama pants and underwear down over her thighs, his free hand braced in the mattress. Despite earlier protests, she kicked them off so they bunched at the end of the bed, her body shivering in the frigid room, white skin nearly blending into the thin sheets.

A groan escaped him, his clothes suddenly heavy and scratchy with the need to be naked beside her. His hands followed the curve of her thighs, not nearly as trim and fit as they'd once been but still he felt the old twinge of desire for her deep in his gut.

Fingers curling behind her knees, he drew her legs up on either side of him, eyes darting up to her face. Her gaze was fierce and steady in the dark even as she shivered, mouth pressed into a thin, unreadable line, like she was waiting for him to give her something to react to. Miles dropped his head, pressing his lips against the inside of her thigh, his nerve slackening.

He could face down certain death in Afghanistan and Trenton and Baltimore but the thought of tasting Rachel again froze him at the edge of her bed with his feet hanging off and her legs parted around him. She always tasted tartly addictive, like- mangoes- and he really couldn't afford to lose himself in her, not now, not when he so desperately need clarity.

Something propelled him forward though, landing in the crease of her thigh, skin unbearably cold beneath the heat of his mouth. She draped her leg over his shoulder, as carefully arrogant as ever, and Miles drew his fingers between her legs, spreading her open. He smiled into her at the sharp gasp above him, cold air no doubt biting at her slick, sensitive skin.

Tipping his head a fraction to the side, he pursed his lips against her, her taste stronger and more overwhelming than he remembered and her body more pliant and wet than he expected. Miles bit back a groan of surprise, pants too tight as he wrapped one hand around her raised thigh.

Her hips jerked, a moan escaping through clenched teeth, and he gripped her hip tighter, tongue curling inside her, shallow but enough. His fingers spread out on her stomach blindly, thumb stretching between her legs, nearly bumping his nose with each ungainly pass. Shooting a glance up the length of her body, he found her flushed, chest heaving, even with her breasts already pushed up from the unnatural angle of her arms stretched above her head.

Miles moaned against her, flipping his hand over so he could push two fingers inside her, curling and digging in, her pulse lurching. A strangled sound tumbled out of her, heartbeat racing under his hands and Miles felt a tight cramp of anticipation spread into his thighs. Her muscles clenched on his fingers, legs tightening on either side of him, and he shifted in discomfort, grinding into the mattress.

Rachel must have sunk her teeth into her lip because when she came it was with a muffled cry that might have been his name, might have been nothing more than a string of curses or might have been one of her head games: his brother's name or Bass'.

When he lifted his head, he was nearly as breathless as she was, her hands clinging to the wooden slats she was lashed to. Dragging himself up until she was at eye level beneath him, Miles wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, relishing the glazed surrender on her face.

He braced his hands on either side of her, taking in the chatter of her teeth and the goosebumps spread across her body, the accompanying rush of power more intoxicating than the proven ability to lay waste to most of New England. "Christ."

Rachel pressed up into him, her thigh hitching over his. "Untie me." The slightest hint of a whine clung to the edges of her words, breaking her mask of composure for only a moment.

"No." Falling onto one elbow, he ducked his head to part her lips with his tongue, still fresh with the taste of her: tropical fruit and sweet-salt sweat. Rachel sucked at his tongue, greedy, and he thought maybe he should have been ashamed by the way he hardened even further at the prick of pain from her teeth.

Reaching between them with one hand, Miles unbuttoned his pants. His fingers curled familiarly around himself, lungs seizing, and he worked her thighs open, legs hitching over his hips. Nudging against her, he watched her eyes flutter shut, visibly calming herself. "No, Rachel. Look at me."

She ground her teeth, taking a deep breath before peeking her eyes open to narrow slits. "Don't think you can make me beg."

Miles held her stare for the five seconds he managed to hold out, with the tip of him pressed against her, wetness smeared on his skin. Groaning, he crushed his lips to hers and slammed inside her. His teeth bit into her bottom lip with the force of it, Rachel gasping and choking against his mouth. Brain shorting out, all he could comprehend for a few moments was her scalding heat in the freezing room.

He broke away from the bruising kiss with a morbid reluctance and immediately she drew her bloody lip in between her teeth, sucking hard. Large calloused hands covered in scars wrapped around her wrists, sliding down over stretched, straining arms and then the length of her body as he thrust inside her: the barest outer curve of breasts to ribcage to waist to hips to fingers digging into her ass, yanking her as hard and flush against him as possible.

Panting into the curve of her throat, he could feel her every breath, muscles tense beneath his suffocating weight. Her body tightened on him and he slammed his eyes shut before they could roll back in his head, tongue darting out between his lips. "_Rache-_"

A choked, desperate sound escaped her as he reached between them, knuckles bumping against her. He curled fingers around himself, pulling out of her body and jerking his hand roughly into the mattress, head buried in her shoulder. Her breasts were soft, crushed up against his chest, and he could almost pretend through the foggy edges of arousal that they were still young and the worst thing he'd ever done was sleep with his brother's wife.

But pretending wasn't the point of this, not when he had stood in the window a week before and watched tiny coffins loaded onto a cart. Miles grit his teeth, rhythm stuttering as he remembered the sick knot that had coiled in his stomach at the sight. Honestly, it wasn't that different from the sensations spreading through him now: guilt and disgust and the pinch of corruption. He grunted into her shoulder, sinking into the routine of muscle spasms for long, pounding heartbeats.

When he finally looked up at her, Rachel's head was tipped back against the pillow, silent. Her lips were tinged blue and though the silver coin on a cord around his neck dangled between her breasts, she seemed too numb to react to the cold metal. Miles reached up, joints protesting as he tugged her restraints loose, red, raw stripes painted across her skin. Cradling her wrists, he pressed his lips to one and then the other, her hands shaking against his cheeks, words sluggish when she spoke. "F-for god's sake, Miles, it's only 33 degrees in here."

Rolling his eyes at her precision, though the mercury thermometer next to the bed did indeed read 33, he reached behind him to readjust the heated bricks, now barely warm. Miles pulled the heavy blankets up over their heads, shrouding them in cold, dark intimacy and, as his eyes adjusted, he watched her impassive face warm to something almost sympathetic. "What's going on?" she asked, voice hushed as though they were kids sharing secrets in a blanket fort.

The stickiness on her thighs and the limp weight of him between his legs almost made him blush at the innocent thought and he reached down to tuck himself back in his pants. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"You're all… guilt-ridden and gentle. _What's going on?_"

Miles sighed, almost surprised he couldn't see his breath as he worked out whether telling Rachel the truth made him a fool, a traitor or just pathetic. "Bass killed a couple of kids." It came out in a rush, the words tumbling out nearly before he had made up his mind. "To make an example. That's not what we were all about. At least, I didn't think we were."

"Just one more reason for people to hate you." She paused, gaze dropping, her hands sliding beneath his shirt so he shivered as her fingers skimmed his ribcage, the scar on his left side, through the dark hair on his chest.

He thought she had more to say, watched her open her mouth to continue, but she stayed quiet. Miles rubbed his hands over her cold, shivering body for the sudden fear his twisted desires had actually harmed her. Her silence was far more likely induced by knowledge of his usual temper than by hypothermia though and it pained him more than he'd ever realized to admit that, even to himself.

"You more than anyone, I suppose."

"I should." Rachel pressed her lips together in a thin, straight line, blue eyes flat in the dark, betraying nothing.

His heart clenched, pulse stumbling, and he brought a hand up to her face, sliding against the pillow to tangle in the blond curls at the back of her head, his mouth seeking hers. She parted her lips beneath him, hands sliding around to his back, palms flat, but for once he didn't rush to explore her. His tongue traced her bottom lip instead, drawing the kiss into something warm and all but tender, a kiss of gratitude rather than sex and self-loathing.

When he pulled back, mere centimeters between them, he felt a tugging in his chest at the softness of her eyelashes, emotions more apparent with her eyes closed, features twisted with the sad longing of a caged animal. Finally, her eyes flickered open and he sucked in a lungful of cold air, shocked to see the barest trace of tears in them. "You should go," she murmured, drawing her hands back to her body, away from him. "Be with Nora."

The room was silent as he pulled back, reluctant to throw off the blankets, break the moment. Moving to sit on the edge of the bed, he methodically buttoned his shirt and retrieved his boots and jacket. Rachel shrugged her pajamas back on and tucked herself back beneath the covers. His eyes darted to the short lengths of rope abandoned around the headboard as he stood, jerking the hem of his jacket so it lay flat.

"Miles?"

He turned at the top of the stairs to find her curled on her side, hand tucked under her cheek.

"Be careful. Out in the cold."

Miles grimaced. He had yet to decide if braving the cold was worth it, if Bass was so far gone he didn't have a choice.

No, that was a lie. He knew all too well what he had to do.

Tiny coffins flashed in front of his face.

Can't hide forever.


End file.
